paint. He cocked his head a little and read J O E…no it was impossible to read. Thulani looked at his new shiny watch again. Uncle Tshepo had brought it back from the city on his last visit home. He had proudly presented the timepiece to his nephew at the farewell party.
“Here, son,” he had said. Making sure that Uncle Robert, his mother and auntie Malie, who were standing nearby, heard him loud and clear. “You will need this for your trip. Don’t want to be late for training, ha ha ha!”
Uncle Tshepo had laughed his guttural laugh and thumped Thulani’s shoulder. Only to straighten his best white shirt and thumping his nephew’s shoulder again, before giving the beer can in his other hand his full attention. Uncle Tshepo was an important security guard for an important company in the city’s business district. Everyone in the village knew it. He had promised to get Thulani a position as a security guard in the company after finishing school. That had been only two months ago. But then the ‘thing’ had happened and everything changed. The nervous feeling started creeping back into the pit of his stomach.
“…eight, nine, ten…” Thulani started counting the lamps again and kicked his bag with impatience.Where was the damn train? He wanted to get on with it.
The’ thing’ had happened about six months ago.
One day in March, Mr. Motjabelo had come from the city to their remote village and stayed for a week. He always seemed to be around. Mr. Njaji, the principal of their tiny country school, had told the pupils only that they should carry on as normal. The visitor just wanted to have a look at their school sport and would make the rounds to other schools in the area. Mr. Njaji had told them nothing else. And they had played soccer as always. It was the best part of school, even if the ground was all muddy from the rains.
Mr. Motjabelo observed the boys closely. Thulani had caught his eye. The way he bent the ball’s curve, the way he dribbled. He took down notes. Thulani felt the man’s eyes follow him at first, but then the novelty had worn off. The schoolboys soon ignored the stranger and just greeted him politely.
That’s exactly what Mr. Motjabelo wanted. The boys enjoyed soccer and played their best when they didn’t feel observed. He knew he would find talent in this village. He’d paid close attention to the games on the sports field and wasn’t even distracted by the breathtaking view of the valley.
A great midfielder, this boy in the green shirt, he thought. The way he always seemed to get the ball through the defense and into the goal. The way he bent it was something else. Lots of potential there.
Then the man from the city had suddenly left.
“What do you think the guy was doing here?” Alfred had asked.
“Who knows. Maybe he wants to give money to the school.”
“Yes, like a celebrity.”
“Or some company.” Jimmy had chirped.
“He could build more class rooms.”
“What do you need more classrooms for? I want to play soccer. Come on.”
Thulani had wiped his hands on his green shirt and trudged ahead of the others. The children forgot the man quickly. But after Easter, Mr. Motjabelo had returned with two other men. This time he wore an impressive dark suit. So did the other men. They seemed important. They spoke fast and laughed noisily at their own jokes. Everyone knew that they were the Khosi’s guests. A big, shiny black car was parked in front of the village chief’s complex. So grand and important these men had seemed. So out of place.
The flustered principal had told the children why the men were here. It was a great honor. Again the boys were being watched as they played soccer on the field. It was more exciting this time round. Official somehow. It was all Thulani could think about when he helped his grandfather cut and dry rooibos plants on the smooth rock outside the village, when he did his homework, when he walked to school with Alfred. He thought about the scouts all the time.
Then it happened.
Thulani was called into the principal’s office. His heart sank. He could not think of anything he had done wrong. He felt guilty, although his marks had improved. Would he get a caning? With his head hanging he knocked timidly on the principal’s door.He could feel the pain on his backside already.
But Mr. Njaji’s voice didn’t sound angry. That was a relief. He saw the three strange men sitting on chairs around the principal’s huge desk. Would he be disciplined in front of these grand city men?
He stood stiffly when Mr. Njaji grabbed his hand, beaming all over his broad face. It was as if the principal was going to shake his arm from its socket. The three men didn’t move, but they were smiling importantly.
“Thulani Tshabalala, you have been selected to go to the big city and learn how to play professional soccer at the new sports academy.”
Thulani was stunned. Was there something wrong with his ears? Maybe it was just a dream. Then it hit him. Professional soccer. Incredible! He didn’t dare look at the men directly for fear that they might change their minds.
“It will be hard work and you must study well.” Mr. Motjabelo said and the men laughed. “There won’t be time to fool around. You are leaving at the end of June.”
Mr. Njaji handed him a letter for his parents and some brochures then he sent him back to class. Thulani felt numb. Leaving his village? Mother, Alfred and grandfather?And what about Neo? He put the letter and the brochures into his shirt. Was this really what he wanted? But the polished linoleum floor seemed to cheer him on as he walked down the passage. Go Thulani, go go go! He found himself back in the classroom on his chair, too dazed to say anything. His teacher grinned. So he knew. Thulani felt the other children stare holes into him.
“Did it hurt?” Jimmy whispered next to him.They didn’t know.
Jimmy and Alfred had taken turns in putting their arms around him as the boys walked home along the stony path next to the cattle post fence. The smell of rain hung in the air and the cattle in the field lowed lazily. The sun burned hotly on the boys’ heads.
“So what happened?” Jimmy broke the silence.
“They chose me.”
“Chose you for what?”
“The sports academy in the city.”
“What?” Jimmy and Alfred stopped walking and stared open-mouthed.
“You heard me. Mr. Motjabelo said it will be hard work.”
“What? But that’s great!” Alfred laughed and clapped his brother’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you say something.”
“I don’t know.” Thulani stared at the ground, dragging his feet.
“You don’t look happy.”
“I don’t really want to leave.”
“Why, what ‘s wrong with you?” Alfred kicked a stone out of the way.
“Nothing. I’ll be all alone in the city.”
“Yes, with dozens of other boys. Maybe you’ll even play in the World Cup.”
“That’s still years away. I’ll miss you guys.”
“You’ll get over it.” Jimmy said harshly.
“Thulani Tshabalala, captain of the South African team. Sounds good.”
“What if they are horrible.”
“Don’t be a baby.”
“I’ll race you to the spaza shop.” Thulani shouted and ran, pushing aside his sudden fear.
He had never even thought of leaving the green hills, never thought of doing anything else but herd cattle and play football. Even going to the city and working as a security guard in uncle Tshepo’s company had never been as attractive to him as staying right here. At home.
The sun was covered by clouds when they finally reached the homestead. His father had been quiet for a few minutes after reading the letter. His face was serious. He was one of the few adults in the village who could read, but it wasn’t enough to find a job in the big city. He was unemployed and had been home since the beginning of spring. Not even uncle Tshepo’s company wanted him; they said he was too old.
“It says here that you can finish school at the sports academy and play as much football as you like. You can earn a living pla
ying soccer, as long as you do your best. It is a great chance, son.” There was a twinkle in his tired eyes.
“Yes, father.”
His mother was informed and Thulani would never forget her expression of joy and pride and wild fear and sadness. She cried of course. She always did.
It rained that night. Rain was a blessing! A good sign, although the rain turned the dirt roads into muddy streams again. That night, Thulani was dreaming. In his dream he was a superstar. Signing autographs and travelling to far-flung places with a team of other superstars, playing soccer to cheering crowds. All this just for playing soccer! He still remembered that dream now. The colorful images faded in Thulani’s mind. The grey train station wall stared at him again in all its ugliness.
Then Thulani had been kicked by a badly tempered donkey a week later. When his knee began to swell and took on an angry, red color, he saw his dream float down the river in a hurry. The sangoma was called. The medicine man wore his hair in long braids down to his shoulders and there were lots of beads around his neck. The sangoma swatted the air with his whisk of black hog’s hair. To Thulani he had never seemed as important as now. His knee had to get better.
“Somebody in the village wishes Thulani ill and the donkey is the tool to harm the boy.” The sangoma declared, but it remained unclear who wished him ill.
Powdered muti was thrown into a bowl of water with chanted spells and Thulani’s feet were washed in the water. Then the knee was covered in a green slimy poultice and bandaged. Whatever it was,
An African Soccer Story Page 2